


Nothing Remains (And Everything Stays)

by havetaoque



Series: Spideypool stories [13]
Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Dark, Flashbacks, Fluff, Harry and Gwen are good bros, Implied Torture, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-17 22:24:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13086645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havetaoque/pseuds/havetaoque
Summary: Peter collapses at work one day and is rushed to the hospital.





	Nothing Remains (And Everything Stays)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back! (temporarily) So here is some more spideypool :)

“Headaches again, Parker? You ought to get that checked out.”

Peter grimaced. “It’s nothing. I just need some air.”

“O-kay,” Harry said, dragging out the word doubtfully. “I’m just worried about you, buddy.”

Peter gave him a tight smile. “I know. But I feel fine. Other than, you know.”

“I just feel like you should be freaking out a little more about it. I would be, if I had been hit by a—Peter!”

 

* * *

 

“You’re going to be fine, Pete. I’m right here.”

“Harry… What’s…?” Peter felt someone take his hand and squeeze it. Then there was a breeze on his face, and at the edge of his vision, he could see several people on either side of him. The air turned sharp and a wailing sound shivered through the air, making his head pound.

“You’re going to be fine.”

 

* * *

 

He’d forgotten how much he hated hospitals. Not the work they did, of course, but the sterile smell, the dry air, the thin, yet deceptively heavy blankets by which he was currently pinioned to the little remote-controlled bed. At least he had a window. He’d read that patients healed faster in rooms with windows – something about seeing trees or the sky or some shit. A window meant an escape route.

He glanced out the window at the rooftops of the hospital complex and frowned. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting to see out there. Footsteps drew his attention, and then there was a hand on the door, pushing it open. The privacy curtain was jerked aside with a _scritch_ of the little metal hooks on the rod.

“Glad to see you awake, Dr. Parker,” the nurse said, clipboard in hand. “I’m just here to check your vitals.” He drew the stethoscope from around his neck and pressed it to various spots on Peter’s chest, then made some notes on the file. “How have you been feeling?”

“I feel fine,” Peter said.

“That’s great,” the nurse said. “But just to make sure, we’ll be keeping you here for a few more days to monitor your condition. Luckily you didn't hit your head when you collapsed, but we need to observe you for any sudden changes.”

Peter blanched. “Days? I can’t stay in the hospital for days. I’m in the middle of testing—erm—confidential experiments for Oscorp.”

“I suppose I shouldn’t mention then that the doctor has recommended minimal stimulation for a week after you’re discharged.”

“Meaning?” Peter asked dubiously.

“No screens, no reading, no driving. Lights out, if possible.”

Peter sighed. Not again. The nurse gestured for his arm and wrapped a blood pressure cuff around it.

“How much will this hospital stay cost me?” Peter asked, watching the tiny red hand of pressure gauge tick.

The nurse looked up from his watch and released the pressure. He turned to Peter with a kind smile. “You have very good health insurance, Dr. Parker, but actually the rest has all been taken care of. That’s all I need for now,” he said, replacing the blood pressure cuff. “I’ll be back to check your vitals in another hour. Is there anything you want from the cafeteria before I go? Chocolate pudding, perhaps?”

“Thanks,” Peter said automatically. But his mind was elsewhere. Paid in full again? He really needed to get Harry a good birthday gift this year.

 

* * *

 

Harry ran his hands through his hair as he talked to the doctor outside Peter’s room.

“I should have done more. I should have made him move in with me after the accident, then maybe none of this would have happened.”

“Sometimes spells like this happen after severe trauma. It’s not your fault, Mr. Osborn. He’s made significant improvement since March.”

Harry sighed. “He has, generally. But he gets this blank look sometimes and then I ask him about it, but everything he says matches up exactly with what happened. I don’t understand. And a couple times, I’ve found him on the roof – of the Oscorp building. And he used to go up there for air when he got stressed at work, but this was like really close to the edge and I don’t want to jump to—bad word choice, erm—make assumptions or anything, but I’m worried.”

The doctor looked very serious. “I didn’t know about that. Thank you for telling me.”

 

* * *

 

 _Beep. Beep. Beep_. The sounds from the heartrate monitor pulsed steadily in the quiet hospital room. Peter lay in bed, dozing. The slightest noise would wake him up. He had never been good at sleeping in unfamiliar locations. Cold concrete and taco wrappers make a fine bedroll, partner. Yeah, if you like hard greasy mattresses. Better for your spinal alignment. _Beep. Beep. Beep_. Like a countdown. Too many wires.

_Beep. Beep. Beepbeep. Beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeep—_

He chokes trying to scream someone’s name. He’d be fine, but that wasn’t the point. Cut the yellow wire. No the white one. They come in boxes. There’s not really a difference between white and brown eggs. Some chickens lay blue eggs. But the real question is does this make me look fat? _Beepbeep. Beepbeepbeep. Beepbeep. Beepbeepbeeapbeeabeabeaby_

Peter woke, thrashing. Two figures hovered nearby. An oxygen mask was pressed against his face and Peter gasped into it before his breathing settled and exhaustion took him.

 

* * *

 

It was daylight when Peter next opened his eyes. Harry was in a chair, dozing beside him.

“Hey,” Peter said. His voice was muffled under the oxygen mask, but Harry stirred and smiled at him.

“Pete,” he said. “How are you feeling? I’ve been so worried.”

“I’m fine, Harry.”

“The doctor said this stuff happens sometimes.”

Peter shrugged. “Is my experiment ruined?”

“Geez, Pete. You go fainting on us like some fucking damsel in distress and you’re worried about some test.” Harry shook his head, smiling. “You work too hard. See? I’ve always said that, and now you’ve literally worked yourself into a hospital, gown and all.”

“I think I look pretty good. I knew I could pull off the backless look,” Peter joked.

Harry laughed and rested his elbows on the side of Peter’s bed. “I’m glad you’re feeling better. I’d like you to come stay at my place after they let you out of here so I can check up on you. It’s the least I can do now.”

“That’s not really necessary, though I appreciate it, Harry. You’ve done enough. I mean, paying for my medical bills again? That’s just… I can’t thank you enough. I didn’t know how I was going to handle that on top of my student loans this time. I don’t want this to become a thing, but just this once… I really appreciate it.”

Harry’s expression grew increasingly confused and uncomfortable by the time Peter stopped.

“Um, Peter. About that. I meant to talk to you, but I never got the chance with everything that happened and your recovery.”

“What is it, Harry?”

“It wasn’t me.”

“What?”

“I was going to, Peter. Of course, I was. But all of your medical stuff was paid for in full when I tried to. I don’t know. Do you have some mysterious sugar daddy you’re not telling me about?” Harry smiled wryly, attempting at humor, though he still seemed as disconcerted and bewildered as Peter.

 

* * *

 

“You know what you need?” Gwen announced, as soon as Peter opened the door. She strolled in and grabbed Peter’s coat off the back of the sofa, pushed it into his arms, and tugged him toward the hallway. “Put this on.”

 

* * *

 

“Gwen, I can’t believe this! He was doing so well!”

“Well, excuse me if I didn’t know _fish tanks_ would trigger him, Harry. It wasn’t on purpose! I thought maybe a nice guppy would make him feel better. Fish are therapeutic!” 

“You might as well have thrown him into the shark tank! Look at him, he’s still shaking!”

Gwen crossed her arms and sighed loudly. “Ice cream?”

Harry slumped. “Fine. Ice cream. Come on, Peter.”

Gwen led the way to the nearest convenience store. Peter jammed his hands into his pockets and followed along, feeling marginally better for the crisp autumn air. Gwen pulled open one of the glass freezer doors and a _hiss_ of cold air rushed into their faces. She grabbed a Spiderman ice cream for herself and held the door while Harry chose a Hulk cone. Peter reached in quickly and took a Deadpool ice cream sandwich.

“You always did have a thing for Deadpool,” Gwen observed, chuckling.

“I what?” Peter asked, startled mid-bite.

“You’re always insisting he’s not so bad.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed. “But he has been in the news less often for murderous rampages. Maybe it’s Spiderman’s good influence. They usually team up, right?”

“Yeah,” Gwen said, unwrapping her ice cream. “But Spiderman hasn’t shown up for a while. The city could have used him last week with that fire in Midtown.”

“They mostly cause a lot of damage,” Harry groused. “Captain America flew a quinjet through the Oscorp sign that one time. Cost a fortune to repair.”

Gwen squinted at him. “So, that’s like twenty cents then for your dad?”

“Oh, come off it,” Harry said.

“I remember that,” Peter said. Gwen and Harry turned to look at him, faces hopeful. Peter fidgeted and shoved the Deadpool ice cream sandwich into his mouth. They always did that, managing to look like proud parents whenever Peter recalled something. He remembered almost everything now, according to Gwen and Harry, who had grilled him on the Jeopardy! topic Peter Parker a week after his latest discharge.

 

* * *

 

Peter had gone another six months free of hospital stays, collapsing, and panic attacks when things started to get a bit…odd.

For one, he’d made the cover of the _Daily Bugle_ for the first time. It was funny, seeing himself on the paper he used to work for. He could just imagine Jameson begrudgingly approving the copy.

It was a slightly grainy photo. Peter could have done better back in his photography heyday. The photograph was captioned: SCIENTIST SAVES SCHOOLCHILDREN. (And the article had been sure to mention Peter’s former job at the _Bugle_.) It sounded so heroic and dramatic, presented like that, but Peter remembered it as a blur. Everything had happened so fast, and Jameson had left out the part where, after Peter had dashed into traffic to push some children out of the way of an oncoming truck, another guy had pulled Peter to the side of the road, just in the nick of time, and gotten clipped by a car for his troubles. He’d disappeared before Peter had regained his bearings and could thank him. But “Scientist and Random Tall Guy in Hoodie Save Schoolchildren” just didn’t sound as good.

The next incident was a bit embarrassing. Peter had been on his way to work, briefcase slung across his chest, balancing a cup of coffee and a thick stack of manila folders. One of the folders began to slide sideways out of his grasp, and instinctively, he reached for the falling file with his coffee-occupied hand. A single fingertip had not been sufficient to hold an 8oz. latte, which had been surprising at first, for some reason.

He showed up to work with coffee splattered aggressively across his pant leg.

“Hey, the Parker luck makes a comeback!” Harry exclaimed, when Peter walked into the lab office.

 

* * *

 

Peter took to sitting on the fire escape at night. He’d bring a bottle of beer and the yo-yo Gwen had given him as a stress toy. It helped a bit. Peter tossed it, humming to himself, as it shot away from his hand on the thin string with a _thwip_ and returned. He caught it easily and flicked his wrist again. _Thwip_. This felt easy, this was natural. Peter sipped his beer, keeping the yo-yo going with his other hand. _Thwip_. _Thwip. Thwip_.

November rolled around without major incident, but one morning after a particularly sleepless night, Peter found himself in the kitchen making pancakes. It was kind of meditative, flipping pancakes. Before long, he had a stack nearly a foot high. He frowned. He’d memorized the recipe, of course, but this was definitely more than one serving. He’d invite Harry and Gwen over to help him eat them. But there was no maple syrup left.

Harry and Gwen found him sitting on the kitchen floor, crying into an empty bottle.

Gwen pried it gently from his grasp.

“Pete,” said Harry, crouching down. “It’s okay. They sell it at the store around the corner. It’s okay.”

“Not 100% pure Canadian, they don’t.”

Harry and Gwen exchanged a look.

“Well, I’m sure the other supermarket has it,” Gwen said. “I’ll go get some. Then we can all eat together.”

Peter scrubbed at his face with his sleeve and sighed. “I’m a mess. I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened.” He slumped against the cabinets.

“We can eat on the floor with you, if you’d like,” Harry offered, grinning. Peter glared at him and stood up on his own.

 

* * *

 

Loud music used to bother him, he knew, but tonight it wasn’t so overwhelming. It was easy to get lost in the rhythm of whatever the club played, feel his heart pounding in time with the bass. Maybe he was a bit old for this now, but he didn’t feel old. Peter glanced around the sea of heaving bodies: Harry was around somewhere, probably surrounded by a throng of girls. Someone passed by with a tray of drinks and Peter shuffled awkwardly out of the way to make room. His back collided with another person on the dance floor and when Peter turned around, he was faced with a wall of muscle. A large hand landed on his hip, familiar, and tugged him around the rest of the way.

His eyes were familiar. Peter blinked a few times, getting lost in the stream of colored lights that flickered over the man’s face, mottling his skin in pinks and blues and greens. Peter felt goosebumps creeping along his skin, despite the warmth of the room. His breath caught in his throat.

“Remember me, Peter?”

Fish tanks. Peter blinked. The man smiled and stroked his cheek. Like a hospital, but dirty. Concrete is good for the spine with taco wrappers. _Beep._ This won’t hurt a bit. Plastic curtains are easier to launder, didn’t you know? _Scritch_. _Scritch_. Drawn back on metal hooks. Meat hooks. But we saved them all in time. Yellow and white think this is dumb. Yeah, well it’s the right thing to do. I just like saying the word actually. _Beep. Beep. Beep. Beepbeep. Beep._ Get him to shut up. He won’t stop screaming. _Scritch._ White eggs come in boxes. We’re out of milk. We’re out of milk. Wait up! Wait. _Beepbeepbeep. Beep. Beepbeepbeapbeapbea._ Arthur. King? No, she. Them. Sharp enough. Hold on. Wait! She was chewing a match.

Peter ripped himself away and stumbled back, bumping into several other dancers. The man grinned at him and watched as he fled the dance floor.

 

* * *

 

Peter shoved the door open in the back of the club and staggered out into the rain, vomiting as soon as he was clear of the club. He hugged himself and slid to the ground beside a trash can, ignoring how it wobbled. Some beer cans toppled hollowly to the wet pavement.

The back door banged open and people in various states of undress poured out, their panic filling the air with a sharp tang. Peter sat up a bit and stared at them as they disappeared in the rain. The trash can teetered as the last stragglers rushed past. Peter sat, frozen, against the wall and heard something crash inside the club, likely a table. Gunshots. Five taps burst; seventeen bottles exploded. A chandelier hit the floor, crystals scattering across the foot-polished dance floor with the high, clear sound of chaos. Two men fighting, one bleeding heavily. A shiver went up Peter’s spine and the brick wall at his back trembled with the impact of what sounded like a billiards table, balls and all, from the separate _thunks_. Peter shot to his feet. The puddles rushed up to meet him.

He dragged himself onto his hands and knees, gasping for air. He could see his reflection in the water below him, distorted by ripples. He sat up and pushed his hair back from his eyes and went into the club.

The man from the dance floor was fighting someone else, and two were tearing the place apart. There was another crash and someone yelled and Peter saw the dance floor man pinning his opponent to the bar, a sword through his chest. A terrible sense of déjà vu swept over Peter and he had to reach out and grab onto the wall for support. When the feeling passed, he advanced, taking a chunk of the wall with him. He looked at his hand oddly and shook it a bit. The chunk of drywall stayed put.

The two men had stopped fighting and were staring at him.

Then the man from the dance floor said, “Well, now I shall have the pleasure of killing you both. What do you say, Wade, will you be a gentleman and let him die first?”

“Shut up, Francis.”

“Wade,” Peter breathed. He glanced at the man in the black hoodie with the katana sticking out of him.

“It’s me. I’m sorry, baby boy. I’m so sorry. I didn’t save you in time.”

The drywall fell from his hand. “Wade. I forgot you. How could I forget you?”

 _Scritch_. Meat metal hooks. We’re out of milk. Out of here. _Beep. Beepbeep. Beep._ Out of here. _Beep. Beep. Beep. Beepbeepbeepbeepbeybybaby_

_boy_

“Peter, no!”

Francis stumbled back at the unexpected impact. He pulled a knife from his boot and stabbed Peter in the thigh. Peter shouted in pain and twisted away, pulling the knife from his leg. He threw it at Francis, but Francis dodged and charged at him, swinging his ax.

Wade pulled out the sword pinning him to the bar and laid there, panting through the pain, while he healed. When he stood, his boots slid in the blood that had gathered in a puddle beneath him. Peter was fighting Francis on his own, but with a ferocity Wade had never seen before in Spiderman.

It was surprising, to say the least. Surprising and wonderful. He still had his powers _and_ he remembered him. Peter ripped the ax from Francis’ hands and took him the ground in a grappling move that Wade remembered teaching him. 

Peter was crushing Francis’ skull.

Which was good. But wait, baby boy didn’t kill—

“Peter! Peter, stop!”

Wade darted forward, boots making unpleasant, but familiar squelching noises in the blood. He wrapped his arms around Peter and tugged him back. “Peter, Petey, let go. Don’t do this. You don’t want to do this. Come on.”

Peter released Francis and fell back against Wade, chest heaving. He blinked a few times, and—

 

* * *

 

It was nighttime and he was lying in a bed.

“What do you remember?”

Peter blinked slowly and rubbed his eyes. He glanced at Wade and then fixed his gaze on the edge of the mattress by Wade’s thigh.

“Enough,” Peter croaked. “In bits.” His throat felt raw. Wade offered him a cup of water and explained he’d been crying for several hours. “That would explain the congestion then,” Peter muttered.

“When…When did your memories and your powers come back?” Wade sounded unusually hesitant.

“Last night. I think. It happened so suddenly. I ran into… and then I was out back and everyone ran way. I assume that’s when you showed up.”

“Hell yeah,” Wade said grimly.

“Um. Yeah, I don’t know. Just everything seemed a bit sharper, but very hazy too. I remember… I remembered I heard your name. And then I…”

Peter swallowed. “I don’t remember anything after that.” He began shaking.

Wade rubbed his back soothingly. “Hey, hey, it’s going to be okay now.”

“Is it?” Peter asked. He couldn’t help the tears slipping from his eyes. “He took my—I can’t—I don’t. I don’t stick to stuff anymore,” he finished.

Wade chuckled softly. “Oh, Spidey, you were plenty sticky last night. You still have your powers. They’re just buried down in there somewhere.”

Peter scrubbed at his face and willed his voice to come out steady. “Are you going to leave? I can’t feel my spider powers anymore. I’m just a normal defenseless human.”

Wade pulled Peter into his arms. “No, baby boy, that’s not why I…I’m sorry I left you before. I thought…”

“That I wasn’t Spiderman anymore?”

“No! I thought I had failed you. I couldn’t…I did fail you. I’m the one that asked you to come with me on that mission. I’m the one who didn’t get to you in time. I let that shitbag hurt you. He tortured you and I did nothing. I couldn’t save you. And then you didn’t know who I was and…I thought that if you couldn’t remember…just the other half of your life then maybe… you’ve always said how hard it is, being torn between the two, balancing them. You had a shot at a normal life. One without crazy supervillains who try to steal your powers or…”

“You knew I was at the club,” Peter stated.

“Yeah, of course, I had to follow to make sure you were safe, and then I saw that—”  

“See? You didn’t fail me. You’ve been watching me all this time, haven’t you?”

“Maybe.”

Peter sighed and leaned against Wade. “You didn’t fail me. And it’s not your fault. It’s…his. It’s all on him – what he did to you, what he did to me.”

Peter laid down again and Wade slid under the covers to lie beside him. They dozed for a while, but then Peter asked, “Do you really think I’ll go back to normal? Get my powers back… and the memories?”

“No.”

Peter started. “No? But—”

“Nobody heals a hundred percent from something like this, baby boy. You just have to keep going. And it sucks, because this kind of thing stays with you. You hear or you see or you feel one little thing and it all comes rushing back. But this time I’ll be here with you. And your powers are still here inside you,” he said, poking Peter in the chest.

“I can’t feel them,” Peter said.

“You’re trying too hard. Just let it happen on its own.”

“Since when are you the wise one?”

“Uhhh, since I brought this along,” Wade said, pulling out a bottle of pure maple syrup from beneath the mattress.


End file.
